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Chapter Fifteen
Kristen struggled to breathe, and the blood leaving her face left her a bit dizzy.
Whatever she’d been expecting him to say, it hadn’t been that.
Maybe some confession about a DUI or something else not quite as fatal.
Oh my God.
She shook her head, swallowing the large lump in her throat as she visualized it in her head. “Blake.” His name came out on a broken whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
He pulled her hand from his cheek, his grimace almost a sneer of contempt. “Don’t. Just…don’t feel sorry for me. Please.” He closed his eyes and thrust a hand through his hair. “I don’t deserve sympathy.”
He had to have been a teenager. Maybe a legal adult, but still so young.
“How old were you?”
“Nineteen. We were leaving a frat party to grab more alcohol. Three frat brothers, myself”—he paused, his jaw flexing—“and the girl I was dating.”
Kristen’s heart stuttered, and her throat went tight with grief for him. She didn’t say anything, just listened. Waited for him to continue, but the heaviness in her stomach gave an indication that she knew where this was heading.
“Kyle swore he wasn’t drunk. That he’d only had half a beer and was fine to drive.” Blake sucked in a slow breath. “I should’ve been smarter. Should’ve had someone who hadn’t been drinking drive us.”
But who didn’t drink at a frat party?She didn’t voice the question aloud.
“I was sitting in the back seat in that shitty middle spot.” His laugh was harsh. “I took it to look like a nice guy and let everyone have the comfortable seats. And then it ended up saving my life. I don’t remember anything from the actual accident, but I’m told he drifted into the other lane and hit a truck head-on.”
A wash of cold ran through her at the thought of how easily he could’ve been killed.
This had been the same fraternity her brother had been in, she realized. A hazy memory pricked. Her brother mentioning a fatal car crash that had killed some of his friends. How shocked she’d been and relieved that James hadn’t been in the car.
But Blake had been.
The hair on her arms lifted, and her heart began a slow thud. She wanted to reach out and touch him. Comfort him, but he’d already shrugged off her touch a moment ago. “How badly were you hurt?”
“Pretty bad. I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks.” He was quiet for a moment, and the glaze in his eyes hinted he was reliving it all.
“The scar on your chest?”
“Was from the accident.”
“I can’t even imagine.” What did you say to someone who’d experienced something so horrific? So awful. To lose friends. And a girlfriend.
Had he loved her?
The question would stay buried deep. It was inappropriate—and none of her business. She wouldn’t be so callous as to ask. Even if every part of her burned to know because it would explain so much.
“I never touched alcohol again after that accident. So now you can understand why I freak out when people drink too much and try and drive. There’s a lot of baggage I still carry around from it.”
“I don’t see how you couldn’t.” Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, and the lump in her throat returned.
She couldn’t imagine—could not even try to fathom—what it would be like to lose friends and a girlfriend and be the only survivor in a car accident. The anguish and guilt he must have gone through. Clearly, he still struggled with guilt.
“Here’s another crazy thing. Before it all happened, I was a business major with Wall Street ambition. Hungry for power. For money.”
That revelation made her blink in dismay. “What? Really?”
It was hard, almost impossible, to imagine him in that career.
